Out of the blue, a blustery whirlwind,
She was back and so cutely true to form.
Passion swept from her fevered mind,
Insisting, “That wasn’t me,” in her storm.
“Gregory, ya creep, get fucked, understand.”
Confounded, I asked her to further inform.
I told her, “Dear old Big Ears, I love you so.”
Her ears are large you see, and help her fly
When on her broomstick, frantic on the go.
“You are my very good friend, Erry, no lie,
The best friend I could ever hope to know,”
Said I untruthfully yet still with a sincere sigh.
Enraged she was; came back in Errian fury,
Seething, “Understand I don’t fucking want you;
Never did; go punch your mum’s tits,” all fiery,
“Through a shot glass,” an image quaintly new.
Her mind’s was inspired by nips of whisky
Imparted a brazen, coarse charm to the shrew.
Her denial of her feeling of lusty attraction
Did confuse me coming on the heels of desire
Expressed in a lascivious, welcome suggestion.
But in my wisdom I saw the reason for her ire,
That she only called me a fuck in admiration,
Fearing an allure that could prove dire.
I sought to soothe her, to show I understood.
“I understand, Erry”, I said with kindness.
“I grasp you feel unworthy of me, less good.
You sense I am so desirable; you are much less.
I’m so irresistible, a prize weighing on your mood;
Union with me would be too splendidly glorious.”
Her rough response was not as I had expected:
“Get fucked, you cunt, you faggot, Polonius,”
She shrieked, quite shrill, as if exasperated.
But I understood. “I’m a stud; manly, meritorious.
“I understand that you try to deny you’re torrid,
Mind aflame with burning yearning for me, ravenous.”
“You fear you just aren’t good enough. I understand.”
A tear tricked down her cranky, half smiling face.
“Strangle ya with yer dead nan’s titties by my hand.
How does ya know me mind so well, filthy boniface.”
“But, Erry; I understand what you fear to demand,
That you wake up in a hot sweaty, urging furnace.”
“Yeah, that furnace is a cunt, janoes,” she recalled.
I know you call out, “Polonius, my love, come into me.
Hold me close.” “Not quite those words you told.”
I saw I was making progress with her lurid malady.
”When you realise you have only woken, but unheld,
From a happy dream, tears stream your face, acidly.”
“Oh, Polonius, you creepy, dickbrain, savant cunt,
You know me like a bestie, the nut deep in me nut.”
She was softening, turning a more tender front
As I fathomed deep into her sore, depressive rut.
“You sob yourself back into an empty sleep, dear runt,
A wanting, despairing sleep. I understand, poor slut.”
Her eyes filled with love, softness and warmth.
“Your waking hours are filled with longing thoughts
Of being close to me, locked in lewd, lustful mirth.”
“Oh, fuck me, Polonius; you know I long for cavorts.”
“I cannot promise that we will ever share a berth;
Though I understand how much your passion hurts.”
“Don’t be a tosser; stuff my dirty, horny clunge!”
“I understand your draining thirst for my nearness;
That you hunger for my kiss; but stay your lunge,”
I urged. “I understand your hankering fervid fondness,
Your for an intimacy that you dread may expunge,
That you will never enjoy. I understand your sourness.”
“Don’t be a gobshite. I’m randy as a hobnocker.
Do ya think I’m some gross-thighed munter.”
I don’t blame you for your bitter rancour,
I understand your melancholy demeanour.
Your sadness is a heavy burden, a cruel canker;
For one of your limitations, an abysmal horror.”
“Polonius, you’re useless as tits on a gelded bull;
I’m frigging pining and you say you understand.”
“Your pain must be darkly incomprehensible,
A mystery you’ll never plumb by your own hand.”
“I know what to do by hand, ya stingy arsehole!”
I understand. Let your miserable frenzy be canned.”
“Rejoice, Erry, having known the wonder of me,
To have been so close to happiness, even bliss;
Though shied away from a splendid amity.
That you were so near must seem a cruel injustice.
I understand. Knowing of even slight possibility
Of sublime joy on earth you did dismiss.”
“Piss off, ya poxy plonker den, if ya won’t feck.
Ya just a manky wankstain!” She blurted tearful.
“Knowing that joy is so inaccessible must ache.
That you will ever experience it, is improbable.
A knowledge that makes you a libidinous wreck,
In an ecstasy of hopelessness, terrible and infernal.
I know you;
I know your anguish.